Solidarity
by honalooloo
Summary: 1917. November. The British Army are mere hours away from launching the first offensive of the Battle of Cambrai. A 300 year old corporal knows, whatever happens, that he'll make it through- but as the camaraderie of the trenches begins to get under his skin, Bertrand realises that his own survival isn't the only thing that matters to him anymore... CHAPTER 6 IS UP
1. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMER: I own none of the Young Dracula characters or locations etc. The only thing I own is the plot of the story._

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: So in this story I shall be combining the two things I fangirl about most- Young Dracula and World War One. I'm a bit of a history geek and I'm really interested in modern history, particularly the First World War and the Edwardian era. Big thanks must go to redrachxo and HopeCoppice for inspiring this story with their own fics. Oh and there's one instance of mild swearing in this chapter, just to forewarn you. So, without further ado, enjoy!_

Chapter 1

* * *

**_Base Details_**

_If I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath,  
I'd live with scarlet Majors at the Base,  
And speed glum heroes up the line to death.  
You'd see me with my puffy petulant face,  
Guzzling and gulping at the best hotel.  
Reading the roll of honour. 'Poor young chap,'  
I'd say- 'I used to know his father well.  
Yes, we've lost heavily in this last scrap.'  
And when the war is done and youth stone dead,  
I'd toddle safely home and die- in bed._

_Siegfried Sassoon_

* * *

It was raining. Hard. The tiny droplets beat down like hail-stones, hammering on the mushroom-tops of the soldiers' tin helmets. Making an almighty racket, Bertrand noted irritably. He could barely hear himself think, let alone the instructions of the junior officer. The second platoon of C Company were stood shivering in the communication trench connecting the front line trenches to the reserves, ankle deep in thick, squelching mud that stank of rats and human remains. Not the wisest place to congregate, Bertrand thought wryly; the stretcher-bearers would kick up an almighty row if they found them in the way. At least the high sides of the trenches, coupled with the saturated, rolling rain clouds, provided him with some form of protection from the weak November sun.

If not the bullets.

"I've received a telegram from Captain Wargrave," the junior officer, 2nd Lieutenant Claythorne, roared over the pounding rain, waving a piece of sodden yellow paper in the air. Bertrand barely glanced at it- telegrams could only mean one thing. "B Company is returning to us tonight on foot in preparation for tomorrow's attack. They will not, however, be relieving us."

"Flaming cheek," muttered Rogers, stabbing the toe of his boot moodily into a puddle. Filthy, stagnant water sprayed over Bertrand's trousers. "I haven't had dry socks in weeks."

Claythorne ignored him. He was small and spindly for his age- judging by sight Bertrand wouldn't have put him at taller than five foot eight. Slim of build and unmuscular by nature, his uniform almost seemed to swallow him up, hanging off his bony frame. His leaness wasn't helped by the inadequate morsels of bully beef and dry biscuit he consumed; for a growing lad of eighteen, any further spurts in height and weight would most likely be off the agenda now. Though, Bertrand mused, that was unlikely to be the most pressing of his worries at the moment.

"Major Barrow has instructed that every member of every company in our battalion be present for the push."

Bertrand snorted softly- who on earth had decided that Barrow had enough intellect to be a major? He hadn't been seen on the front line in weeks. Most probably picking out furnishings for his new château, he thought savagely.

Claythorne glared at him. "Was there something you wanted to add, corporal?" he demanded. Bertrand raised his eyebrows.

"Only that if I were Major Barrow, I would send B, C and D Companies over the top tomorrow and allow A Company to be relieved. They haven't been back to the reserve trenches in over a month. Then, if we all get annihilated, there'll still be a quarter of the battalion left to hold the fort until the new lot arrive next week."

There was a rather stunned silence. Not that that meant anything: Bertrand had barely been able to make himself heard over the unrelenting downpour. But the other members of the platoon were staring at him with something like awe.

"Bloody brilliant, that is," Rogers said eventually, looking Bertrand up and down with something oddly reminiscent of reverence. "Doesn't stop _us_ from getting our heads blown off, but it might save the battalion."

Claythorne bristled. "I don't know where Bertrand gets these silly ideas about battle plans from, but rest assured we will need every man we can get for tomorrow's push." He looked around at them all sternly, the attempt to assert his authority slightly ruined by the fact that his hands were shaking rather badly. "I expect to see each and every one of my men present at 5:45am sharp tomorrow morning. And that includes you, Bertrand, so don't get any funny ideas."

Bertrand was the only member of the platoon not addressed by his surname. It was as though 'Corporal du Fortunesa' was too high-brow; he was simply 'Corporal Bertrand'. Which, the vampire thought glumly, didn't have quite the same ring to it.

As the officer dismissed them, and each man attempted to perform the customary salute without elbowing whoever was stood next to him in the face, Bertrand decided wearily that he probably ought to polish up his gun for the attack. The last thing he wanted was to have to piss down the barrel like the other men sometimes did. _So_ undignified. He remembered, with fondness, the golden days of the English Civil War; a newly-turned vampire, he had served with distinction, drunk on the knowledge that nothing but the sunlight could destroy him. Now, however, the new weapons of the 20th-century posed unknown threats. Guns, artillery, bayonets, he knew all about those- but chlorine gas, mustard gas… he'd been fortunate enough never to be caught in a cloud, but he'd heard the horror stories of the chemicals eating men alive from the inside. He hadn't a clue, if he was honest, how the gas would affect a vampire, but whether it would kill him or not it didn't sound particularly pleasant. Not to mention that coughing up his own organs would completely ruin his uniform.

"Bertrand!"

He swung round, a slight frown creasing his forehead as Private Rogers stumped towards him. Greying hair with grey eyes to match, Rogers was the longest serving member of the company, having joined up in the uncharacteristically dry April of 1916. The man should have received promotion by now, but an unfortunate incident involving a Captain Donaldson and a certain French innkeeper's daughter had resulted in a black mark being chalked against his name. Rogers had continually sworn his innocence, but Donaldson was a distant cousin of the Lord of the Admiralty. Which, Bertrand reasoned, said it all, really. Rogers wasn't as tall as Bertrand, but was of even more muscular build. Whereas the war had transformed many married men into walruses, Rogers had relentlessly worked at maintaining his physique. Bertrand supposed it was because of whatever job he had performed back home. Wherever home was- the private's slight northern lilt irresistably brought Manchester to mind.

None of the other men in the platoon often spoke to Bertrand. Not that he minded- he preferred to remain aloof, keep his distance, lest the temptation to bite became too strong. He could feed at nights, of course, gorging himself on the plentiful supply of mangled corpses- but the terrified determination in their wide, empty eyes often ruined his appetite. He remembered returning from a scavenge early one morning to discover that the body he had just drained had been that of a fifteen year old who had lied about his age. He had only just made it round the corner in time to throw up. Bertrand was famous for his cast-iron constitution, but the revelation that boys, mere children were being slaughtered in this way had caught him off guard.

But he had to keep up the act. It wouldn't do to show he cared now, not when most of the men were likely to die tomorrow anyway. "I think the correct term of address is 'corporal'," he said coldly as the man approached him.

Rogers' face instantly hardened. "So sorry, _corporal_," he snapped sarcastically, though Bertrand didn't miss the slightly surprised look of hurt that had crossed his face. He immediately felt a stab of regret. He wasn't sure why.

"I've got to examine your rifles later, so I hope your section has been keeping them in order," he continued, pulling himself together. Rogers scowled.

"Yes, because we've all had time to sit around polishing the silverware in this deluge." He gestured wildly at the darkening sky.

"I'd watch your tone if I were you, Rogers," Bertrand drawled, his own lazy but holding just the slightest hint of a threat. That was one of the things that had attracted him to the British Army rather than the Italian: they had such a wonderful sense of hierarchy, of _class_. You wouldn't catch an unskilled low-life like Rogers in command. He'd probably been a miner or something equally abhorrent before the war, Bertrand thought disdainfully.

The private appeared to be considering a retort, before conceding. "I thought inspections were Claythorne's job," he said sulkily.

Bertrand snorted derisively. "He's delegated," he sneered, "Says he's got too much to do. Writing his last letter to Mummy, I suppose."

"Can you blame him? The kid only left school at the end of July. He's only a few years older than my boy."

"Then why's he commanding a platoon? We need someone with experience-"

"Someone like you, I suppose?"

Bertrand shook his head, rivulets of water dislodging from the rim of his helmet and showering the man stood in front of him. "No," he said firmly, "But someone who truly knows about modern warfare. Claythorne's terrified, he's out of his depth. He's been here seven weeks already- he knows he's living on borrowed time. We all do."

"Now look here-"

Rogers was cut off by a tremendous bang. Bertrand yelled in shock, his vampiric instincts kicking in as he grabbed his comrade and pulled him to the floor. The pair lay in silence, face down in the mud, trying not to wince as white-hot shrapnel sliced through the air. Another whizz, a sickly, whining noise, followed by another bang, closer than the last. The ground shook slightly as the artillery made impact, and Bertrand scrunched his eyes shut as he pressed his face further into the mud. A good few minutes of quiet, and he tentatively raised his head.

"A couple of shells, that's all," he said, sounding a lot calmer than he felt. "I've never known them come this far back before."

"You haven't been to Wipers," Rogers remarked shakily, trying to scrub the worst of the mud off his face. It smeared, looking like war-paint; Bertrand knew he couldn't look much better. "Completely destroyed. Buildings flattened. Whole place is like a ghost-town." He glanced round as they heard the familiar cry of "Stretcher-bearers!"

"Bloody lucky sod, whoever got hit," he said under his breath. "They won't have to go over tomorrow." Bertrand stared at him in disbelief- were the men really that terrified about the push? It sounded like a bit of a laugh to him; he did _so_ enjoy dancing through the barrage of bullets, stopping for a quick snack in a shell-hole before storming yet another German trench. He was usually alone, the rest of the men having been shot down, and he had no qualms about draining a platoon or two before dashing back to his dugout before night fell and he was missed.

"Come on," Rogers sighed, starting forwards before grabbing onto a tuft of grass to keep himself from slipping, "The stretcher-bearers will have our heads if they catch us lingering down here again."

The two men made their way awkwardly along the communication trench, occasionally clutching at each other for support if a mud-patch proved particularly hazardous. As they reached the T-junction that was the entrance to the front line, Rogers turned to face the vampire.

"Thanks," he said awkwardly, squinting at the parapet to the left of Bertrand's head, "That shrapnel could have taken my head off."

"Don't mention it."

The men nodded at each other. Bertrand didn't quite know what else to say, so he settled for checking his watch. Damn. He was cutting it fine if he wanted to clean his own rifle before he inspected his section. He looked up, opening his mouth to make his excuses- but Rogers had already gone, lost in the sea of brown, muddy khaki.

_TBC..._

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've never focused on Bertrand this much in a fic before so I would love to know what you think. Thanks!_


	2. Chapter 2

_DISCLAIMER: see Chapter 1_

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to HopeCoppice, redrachxo and the unknown Guest for reviewing the last chapter, and thanks for the assorted follows and favourites. Not much else to say except I hope you enjoy this chapter too :) oh and there are two instances of bad language. Apologies in advance for that._

Chapter 2

* * *

**_Trench Duty_**

_Shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake,  
Out in the trench with three hours' watch to take,  
I blunder through the splashing mirk; and then  
Hear the gruff muttering voices of the men  
Crouching in cabins candle-chinked with light.  
Hark! There's the big bombardment on our right  
Rumbling and bumping; and the dark's a glare  
Of flickering horror in the sectors where  
We raid the Boche; men waiting, stiff and chilled,  
Or crawling on their bellies through the wire.  
"What? Stretcher-bearers wanted? Someone killed?"  
Five minutes ago I heard a sniper fire:  
Why did he do it?... Starlight overhead-  
Blank stars. I'm wide-awake; and some chap's dead._

_Siegfried Sassoon_

* * *

"Appalling. Abysmal. Vile. Embarrassing. And I don't even think there are words to describe the state of _your_ rifle, Anderson," Bertrand sniffed disdainfully, watching in glee as each of his men deflated in front of his eyes. The inspection was proving rather beneficial in improving his mood. The weapons weren't in that bad a condition, really, but he had been in a foul temper since the artillery barrage; and what better way to vent his frustration than on a set of ten underlings? They were only privates, after all. The lowest of the low. Labourers. Farm-hands. Nothing special.

"Don't you think you're being a little harsh, sir?"

Bertrand swung round, the prospect of a confrontation too good to miss. Already, cutting comments and scathing remarks were whirling around his exhausted brain.

"I believe we had a conversation about the correct way of addressing a senior earlier this morning, did we not, Rogers?" Bertrand reminded the private coolly. A couple of the younger men tittered; Anderson- a scrawny, rat-like man of forty-two- actually guffawed. Bertrand ignored them all. "If you want to go over the top with a half-working rifle tomorrow morning then be my guest; it would certainly be an amusing spectacle for the rest of us."

Rogers stood his ground. "How did you think we were going to get 'em clean in this weather?" he demanded. The rain had eased off slightly now, but the fall was still heavy enough to reduce a maintenance kit to a soggy mess in a matter of minutes.

"And what if it's still raining tomorrow morning?" Bertrand shot back silkily, a patronising sneer curling the corners of his strikingly aristocratic mouth. "Do we hold off the attack until it's eased up a bit? Ask the Germans to wait a few days because we don't fancy going on a killing spree when the sun's not out?"

"Oh, will you just piss off with all your clever remarks? You think you're so much better than us but you're only a corporal! Only two ranks above us! _And_ you're a bloody Italian, and we all know what treacherous little bleeders _they_ are."

There was a collective intake of breath; a couple of low whistles. The other members of the section seemed to melt back into the trench walls as Bertrand surveyed Rogers coldly, his cat-like eyes sweeping over the bedraggled hair (which was receding slightly with stress), the mud-drenched uniform, the too-large boots with the broken laces. Oh, how the army had fallen since the glorious days of the 1600s. Back then the man would have been run through with a bayonet for such insubordination.

Every inch of Bertrand itched to roar and thunder, to terrify the man out of his wits and sink his fangs into his thick, muscly neck. How dare he talk back? How dare he so blatantly, so brazenly challenge authority? But Bertrand had been around too long not to know that losing one's temper didn't get them anywhere. He could play a canny game when he wanted to and, in the end, he knew that would bring him more satisfaction. He took a deep (entirely unnecessary but certainly impressive) breath.

"Rogers, you're how old?"

The man started, eyeing Bertrand in confusion. "Thirty-six," he answered warily. Born 1881, Bertrand thought wryly. A whole two-hundred and sixty years after himself.

"And you're married, yes? With children?"

"Son and a daughter. But-"

"And they're…?"

"Jimmy's fifteen and Vera's eleven. But I don't-"

"Wife working?"

"On the buses while I'm out here. But look here, what's that-"

"And how do you think they're going to feel when the postman stops outside their house in a few days' time? A telegram in his hand, perhaps, from the War Office, bringing them the news that all wives and children nowadays dread to hear?"

"Now just a minute-"

Bertrand took a threatening step forwards, his olive skin a sharp contrast to the blotched red and white of the man stood before him. All this worrying really wasn't good for him. He'd be _completely_ grey before he reached forty if he didn't watch out.

"This isn't a joke," he said quietly, dangerously, as he pulled the private's rifle out of his hands and held it up to the light. "See that screw there? It's loose. You could lose the whole back-end of this tomorrow if you don't tighten it up. And there's mud in the barrel; the trigger's stiff, it'll need oiling; generally, I'd say, if you shoot any Germans with this tomorrow you'll be damned lucky."

Rogers' face had by now turned a nasty shade of puce. Bertrand could sense his heart rate increasing as the blood boiled beneath the tender membrane of his skin. The man was furious, _fuming_ at having been given such a thorough and such a public dressing down. And serve him right, Bertrand thought savagely: if the man was going to bother being in the army he would damn well take it seriously.

"That goes for all of you," he continued, his darkening eyes sweeping over each and every member of his section. "If you want any chance of seeing your families again it's in your interest to ensure that you're as prepared as you can be. Else, when they're on the poverty line, struggling to get by on inadequate War Pensions who will you have to blame?"

"Those fucking Jerries!" Rogers thundered. He squared up to Bertrand, who felt a hollow sort of satisfaction at the way the man's colour had suddenly drained from his face. "Don't you dare talk to us about family," he growled. "You know nothing- some of us have been here since 1915, slaving away because it's our duty and you- you weren't even here for the Somme, for God's sake, what the hell do you think you know-"

"What's going on?"

A young, boyish voice, rife with suspicion, rang out from the entrance of a nearby dugout. Immediately all ten privates sprang to attention; Claythorne waved at them impatiently, turning to address Bertrand.

"Corporal, do I need to remind you that we launch our offensive tomorrow? We haven't the time to be standing around chit-chatting. There is work to be done."

"With all due respect, sir, I was merely-"

"He was insultin' our families, sir," Anderson interrupted, narrowed eyes glinting as he glowered at the vampire's back. It was testament to Bertrand's levels of self-control that he prevented his fangs from dropping.

Claythorne snorted. "Really, Anderson, this is the army," he said witheringly, his gaze contemptuous as it surveyed the assembled section. "There'll be time to bicker like schoolgirls tonight. For now, I suggest you ensure we have enough grenades to tide us over till tomorrow. The supply base has been rather frugal with their deliveries recently." The officer sighed, and the handsome, youthful face was suddenly overcome with fatigue. Bertrand felt a pang of resentment- the boy spent much of his time poring over maps and account books, eyes straining to the read the smudged, miniscule print in the light of a solitary candle. What did he have to complain about?

"Anderson; Gibson; Peakes; make an exact record of the platoon's stock of grenades and report back to me at once," Bertrand ordered. The three privates saluted grudgingly before trudging off down the trench, ducking half-heartedly as a shell whizzed over their heads. "The rest of you can start on those rifles."

"Use my dugout," Claythorne said distractedly, gesturing towards a precarious-looking structure built deep into the trench walls. It was supported by damp, rotting wooden posts. The surrounding sandbags were sodden and split, spilling their contents into the oozing, suckling mud. "Go easy on them, corporal," he continued in a low voice, as the men disappeared down the steps. "This could be their last day."

Bertrand grinned despite his previous annoyance with the officer. "Not been struck by a bout of melancholia, have we, lieutenant?"

Claythorne didn't crack a smile. He sighed again, running his hand haggardly though his sopping wet mop of thick, mousey hair before remembering that he ought to be wearing his helmet at all times. He jammed it back onto his head hurriedly; to Bertrand, he suddenly looked a lot older than his eighteen years. He checked his watch, and let out a strangled yelp.

"Crikey, I'm going to be late if I don't dash. I've been told to report to Captain Lombard of A Company by noon so I'll leave you in command while I'm gone."

"Surely a sergeant-"

"They're indisposed," the boy said shortly. Oh. So that explained why he'd been delegating to Bertrand; why he looked so tired. He was on his own.

The pair saluted, and Bertrand watched mutely as Claythorne struggled slowly along the front line trench until he reached a T-junction. The boy paused for a moment to catch his breath, clutching at the trench wall for support. Bertrand's sensitive hearing picked up a horrid, wheezy, gurgling sound. He turned away. There was a strange sensation weighing on his chest: it was heavy. Bertrand couldn't remember having felt it before. It was almost- almost like _pity_.

The rain had picked up again now. It lashed down mercilessly, leaving the duck-boards dangerously slippery. Bertrand had heard rumours of men further down the line, those who had been posted closer to the sea, who had actually been drowned in their dugouts. In the early days of war, when Bertrand had been languishing in an American penthouse, the breather newspapers had told of the tide coming in too far and actually washing men out to sea. Not that the authorities had been bothered. They'd just lamented the great expense that replacing the lost weaponry would bring.

A fork of lightning flashed across the blackening sky. An almighty crash as a communication pylon was brought down about twenty yards away; a tremendous hissing of electrics; an ominous fizzing. There was a good deal of swearing from the surrounding troops as the felled pylon burst into flames. Bertrand rolled his eyes- they were trying to prepare for an _attack_, for God's sake. They didn't have the time for such inconvenient distractions.

_TBC..._


	3. Chapter 3

_DISCLAIMER: see Chapter 1_

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: Once again, I thank you all whole-heartedly for such delightful reviews, particularly the Guest who made such a lovely comment about WW1 historical fiction. I really am loving writing this story and I am so glad that people are enjoying it (even if it means that that wondrous thing we call 'homework' has fallen slightly by the wayside). Anyway, onwards to Chapter 3!_

Chapter 3

* * *

**_The Soldier_**

_If I should die, think only this of me:  
That there's some corner of a foreign field  
That is for ever England. There shall be  
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;  
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,  
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,  
A body of England's, breathing English air,  
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home._

_And think, this heart, all evil shed away,  
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less  
__Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;  
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;  
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,  
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven._

_Rupert Brooke_

* * *

"Someone call a runner!" roared a voice to Bertrand's left. A sharp, piercing blast of a whistle; it seemed only seconds later that a young man appeared, saluting smartly in front of a senior officer.

"Alert the supply base- a fire has broken out in the front line area belonging to D Company, 6th Battalion, The King's Shropshire Light Infantry, 60th Brigade, 20th (Light) Division," the officer reeled off, his eyes never leaving the blaze around which troops were now swarming like fireflies. "It will need immediate attention. Send two more of you to alert Captain Lombard of A Company and 2nd Lieutenant Claythorne of C Company. They will need to account for the whereabouts of their men."

"They're both in a meeting in A Company's dugout," Bertrand interjected hurriedly. The officer- a major, judging by his regalia- eyed him with suspicion.

"You're sure about that, corporal?" he enquired sternly, peering doubtfully over the rim of his spectacles. Bertrand nodded, hitching his haughtiest look onto his marble-like features. "Very well," he conceded, turning back to the runner, "Quick-march."

"Sir." The runner shot off, careering along the trench as though he were under fire, ducking and diving between the streams of troops charging towards the flames. Bertrand tried to keep the boy in sight for as long as possible: _he_ would have made a good runner, he thought wistfully. All that rushing about- his vampiric speed would have come in handy. Not that he'd want to give up the perks of living on the front line: as many corpses as he could want, fresh blood every day, the stench of fear thick upon the stagnant air as men were needlessly blown to pieces…

"Come on, lads, we need all hands on deck," a nearby sergeant bellowed, thrusting buckets at the approaching soldiers. "You there," he boomed, aiming a clot of mud at Bertrand's head, "Don't just stand there gawping. Start collecting some of this rainwater."

Bertrand snatched up a bucket, swallowing down a torrent of vicious words. His insides were twisting in white-hot anger: the man had just thrown something at him. _Thrown_ something at him. A handful of dirt, no less. His unlife really had reached an all-time low if he was being treated like an inferior by a breather. He venomously began to scoop up the filthy rainwater that had collected on either side of the duckboards, staggering forwards to throw it clumsily over the raging blaze. It did little good: electrical fires were always the deadliest. The technology was simply too new for even the best technician to fully understand. Cries and shouts filled the air, sounding almost jovial as the troops worked methodically to dampen the flames. It was as though the distraction from the preparations was welcome: a much-needed diversion from the endless contemplation of their impending fate. Put like that it sounded ridiculously melodramatic, but there was an unacknowledged acceptance amongst the men that many of them were feeling the rain on their faces for the final time.

The dreadful whining of artillery caused Bertrand's head to jerk up. He peered bad-temperedly through the downpour- a shell was heading straight for them.

"LOOK OUT, LADS!" roared the sergeant, and the surrounding men threw themselves to the floor or into the trench walls as the shell made impact. The ground trembled, and Bertrand's feet threatened to slip out from underneath him as he was jolted forwards. There were cries of pain and profanities as shrapnel caught exposed flesh, and the familiar smell of blood overwhelmed Bertrand's nostrils. He fought down the lust, forcing his fangs back into his gums as he focused on helping a young boy near him to his feet; he was shaking badly, his tin helmet slipping down over his wide, scared eyes.

"W-w-what w-was that?" he stammered, clinging to Bertrand's sleeve as he endeavoured to remain upright. Bertrand didn't answer, pushing past him to stare in horror at the flattened pylon.

The shell had done its job. The flames were roaring higher than ever, thick clouds of black, dense smoke billowing into the air. Bertrand's eyes began to sting and he pressed his sleeve over his mouth and nose, the sharpness catching in his throat.

"Oh, bloody hell," exhaled Claythorne, coming to a standstill next to the vampire. He was panting, out of breath from the run; his mud-splattered uniform indicated that he had slipped over more than once. "Well, if the Jerries didn't know where we were before they damn well do now." He squinted up at the sky. "Good job it's wet else we'd have been burnt to a crisp by now."

"Do you think this will affect the attack?"

"Too late if it does. They won't call it off."

"But the fire will lose us men, and weapons, surely? And D Company's dugout will be completely destroyed."

Claythorne sighed, a pained look crossing his face as his eyes stared, unblinkingly, at the pandemonium. "How can the bitten apple flesh out its scar again?" he murmured softly.

Bertrand had no time for pensiveness. He gestured impatiently towards the blaze. "Shouldn't we…?"

"No," Claythorne said, rather abruptly. "The men know what they're doing. They've faced fires plenty of times before, I'm sure."

"All the same-"

"Don't argue with me, corporal!" the officer snapped. His hands were shaking again as he drew his revolver from its holster, tossing it nervously from palm to palm. His young face, stark white in the cold light of day, was tinged with grey; there were stark black rings beneath his large eyes, once so bright with innocence. He bore the look of a man who had been to hell and back, and Bertrand wanted to know why, but felt unable to ask. When Bertrand's previous commanding officer, Lieutenant Edmondson, had been blown up on sentry duty two weeks ago, Claythorne had been transferred from the Somerset Light Infantry. The practice was becoming increasingly common as casualty figures rocketed and the supply of men dwindled. He had arrived on a blood-freezing November evening, only five weeks into his time at the Front and yet Bertrand had recognised the boy as one who had been forced to grow up very fast, before his time. He had been sneered at, scorned by his platoon as he had attempted to assert his authority; he was little more than a child, after all. How did his five weeks compare with the thirty-two months that Rogers had served? What could this fresh-faced, wide-eyed Etonian possibly know that the war-hardened men of the ranks didn't?

The dull wail of a siren floated along the trench. Claythorne cursed under his breath.

"Blast! Who called the supply base? They'll get stuck in that ridiculous truck of theirs, you mark my words; _and_ the hose-pipe never works, it's completely useless-"

He was cut off by the blast of another shell. More yells of shock; more screams of pain; and all the while the rain beat down, thick, heavy droplets pelting the soldiers so fiercely they could have been hailstones. Bertrand stood helplessly amidst the chaos that surrounded him- this wasn't how it was supposed to be. This wasn't what he'd signed up for. He'd wanted to fight, of course, to feel the thrill of the battle, the exhilaration that charging across an open plain, rifle in-hand, brought. After so many years, he'd wanted to feel _young_ again. To be once more one of those bright young things, newly-turned, with endless possibilities ahead of him. Back then the future had looked dazzling; it had been infinite. He was _immortal_, for God's sake: he should be able to do whatever the hell he wanted. He could drain his entire section, his entire platoon, his entire company, and these insipid British fools would be powerless to stop him! There was little trace of the harsh, meticulous organisation that he had heard so much about. They were fighting a losing battle, all of them! How could either side possibly win when so little was gained and so much was lost? Bertrand had never seen slaughter on such a scale before. It was overwhelming, even to a vampire. Lord knew how the breathers stuck it, with their weak stomachs and ridiculous moral code. So why did _he_, Bertrand, stick in this enfer, surrounded by rotting corpses, rats the size of dinner plates, being degraded and put upon by these breathers, the scum of the earth?

Bertrand knew why. In the tiny human part of him that remained, the part he had locked away at the back of his brilliant mind lest it corrupt his vampiric instincts, the answer was crying out to him. Bertrand forced it backwards, back, back into the darkest, the blackest part of his brain. He wouldn't go to that place. Not again. It could only cause him pain. He couldn't change anything now. He was a vampire, a somnambulist: he wasn't supposed to feel. He wouldn't.

The atmosphere around him had shifted suddenly. It was still chaotic, still rife with confusion, but what had previously been joviality had spiralled into panic. It made the hair on the back of Bertrand's neck stand on end; he could feel his cold, pale skin crawling as soldiers pushed blindly past him and Claythorne, retreating as though a hoard of Germans were in pursuit... and yet the moan of the siren was drawing steadily closer, the piercing howl reverberating around Bertrand's delicate eardrums… and someone was shouting something but Bertrand couldn't quite make out what amidst the bedlam… he moved forwards to ask the nearby sergeant before he felt an iron grip clench down upon his arm. He swung round in irritation- who did Claythorne think he was to grab him in such a way?- before his indignation died on his lips as he saw the boy's horrified expression.

He didn't have time to ask what was wrong before the pair were buried beneath an avalanche of rubble.

_TBC..._


	4. Chapter 4

_DISCLAIMER: see Chapter 1_

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: Two instances of swearing and one slightly gruesome incident coming up. Apologies for that. In other news, yay for snow! Stay warm, everyone :)_

Chapter 4

* * *

**_The Young Soldier_**

_It is not death  
Without hereafter  
To one in dearth  
Of life and its laughter,_

_Nor the sweet murder  
Dealt slow and even  
Unto the martyr  
Smiling at heaven:_

_It is the smile  
Faint as a (waning) myth,  
Faint, and exceeding small  
On a boy's murdered mouth._

_Wilfred Owen_

* * *

It was fortunate, really, that Bertrand didn't need to breath. Lying beneath the pile of rubble, with mud, mortar and dust clogging up his airways, he couldn't help but feel slightly smug. His invincibility was delightfully convenient. He couldn't be killed by breather weapons. He couldn't be maimed by breather accidents. Being buried alive didn't affect him in the slightest. Oh, no, Bertrand was quite untouchable. He wasn't worried at all. He'd have been quite content to lie there all day if it hadn't been for the ragged, panicked breaths of Claythorne lying a few feet away. Breathers really were idiotic. The boy should be taking slow, shallow breaths, as few and far between as possible. Choking to death on his own mucus would not be pleasant, for him or for Bertrand. The vampire considered saying something- as much as he loathed to admit it, the boy wasn't too abhorrent for a breather- before the rich scent of flowing blood distracted him, its warmth and freshness almost intoxicating. If he shifted just a little, a fraction to the right, perhaps, then he would be close enough to taste a few drops…

He could hear a dull scrabbling from overhead, and the faint shouts of the men. Damn. It was really rather peaceful down here, if only Claythorne would shut up with that ghastly wheezing. There was never time to just lie back and appreciate unlife when one was up in the line. If it wasn't sentry duty it was some equally mind-numbing task that, half a century ago, Bertrand would never even have considered performing. It was all rather unsatisfactory, and the vampire felt the familiar wave of nostalgia wash over him as he remembered the laissez-faire unlife he had led in America. The seasons in the New World truly had to be seen to be believed, and it was with fondness that Bertrand recalled the screams of the silk-clad debutantes he had led away from the ballroom for draining. Their blood had even _smelt_ expensive: exotic fruits, extravagant bouquets, and only the very best champagne. They had tasted divine, of course, particularly the youngest, the most naïve. What a pleasure it had been to shatter the innocence of those sheltered young fledglings as he guzzled their sweet nectar, not stopping until each of them was quite, quite empty…

And now he was living in a mud-pit in wettest part of France. How times had changed.

A burst of light momentarily blinded him as the scrabbling grew louder and large, dirt-blackened fingers removed the rubble from in front of his face. He blinked, screwing up his eyes in protest.

"Get Claythorne," he croaked irritably, coughing slightly, "He's the one who's hurt."

"I'm here, corporal," said the boyish voice from somewhere behind him. Of course they would have freed him first, Bertrand realised with a surge of bitterness; he was the officer, after all.

It seemed as though a wooden support of a nearby dugout had splintered away from the structure and landed on his legs. Bertrand wasn't particularly bothered- he couldn't feel it. It took the men a couple of attempts, but eventually they managed to heave it into the air and Bertrand was pulled to his feet, spitting mud out of his mouth and shaking brick dust out of his curly hair. He staggered slightly before regaining his balance, noticing with dismay the long gash in his trouser legs and the thick, deoxygenated blood that was oozing through the fabric. He hoped the men would think it was tar: he didn't think his patience could stand any awkward questions.

"How did you get out?" he snapped aggressively, rounding on Claythorne. The boy's eyebrows shot up in surprise at his directness. "One minute you were next to me, gargling away-"

"You took the brunt of it," the officer interjected, reaching out to brush lint from his corporal's uniform. "I didn't need much digging out." The boy looked shaken, certainly, and a cut on his cheek was bleeding badly, but apart from that he appeared to be unscathed. Bertrand didn't understand it. He was confused, and confusion made him angry. Already he could feel himself dangerously close to hissing in frustration at the boy's stupidity.

"You were lying right next to me!" he yelled belligerently, gesturing wildly at rubble. "I heard you, I _smelt_ you."

It was an odd comment to make, but Claythorne didn't seem perturbed. He began dabbing away the blood from his cheek with a grubby handkerchief. "Bertrand, you've probably got concussion," he said soothingly, "Let's get you down to casualty clearing and-"

"Hang on a minute, sir," the sergeant interrupted sharply, pausing with his ear comically close to the largest pile of rubble, "I think… I think the lad's right."

Claythorne let out a strangled laugh. "How can he be right? I'm here, aren't I?"

"No, I think there's someone under here. Here, shift some of this, lads: jump to it."

The group of men who had freed Bertrand immediately descended upon the rubble, clawing at it frantically in an attempt to liberate whoever was trapped underneath. Claythorne hung over them anxiously, trying desperately to make out who it was but only succeeding in getting in the way. It took a few short sharp words from the sergeant to get him to step back, his thin face burning a fiery red; as a commissioned officer he was technically senior to the sergeant, but it would be foolish to ignore him. The man had served in Africa in 1901, and could often be heard comparing "the blasted Boche" to "those bloody Boers". Bertrand had been caught by him on sentry duty many a time, and had been subjected to elaborate (and questionably gruesome) tales of the invasion of Cape Colony "by that damn fool General de Wet".

By now the worst of the rubble had been cleared away. The men stood back, wiping their hands on their uniforms. Sweat ran down their faces, mingling with the rain.

It was the boy that Bertrand had assisted after the first shell explosion. He was lying at an odd angle, limbs jutting out awkwardly, neck in a strange position. His eyes were half-closed. His sandy hair was matted and sticky, stained red with blood. Bertrand could no longer hear his harsh, ragged breathing.

They stared down at him, transfixed. There was silence except for the monotonous pounding of the rain. The boy's helmet had slipped off and was lying, uselessly, a few feet away. His head had been sliced open by a shard of shrapnel: like a melon, Bertrand remembered one of the surgeons at casualty clearing remarking after viewing a similar case. Fragments of splintered skull poked through the torn flesh, ripped as easily as the skin of a fruit, and Bertrand suddenly felt sick, sick to the very pit of his stomach. He turned away from the body, drawing in deep, unnecessary gasps of the midday air, which was still hot and smoky from the fire. Someone had managed to do something about it, it seemed; the flames no longer raged, the clouds of black smoke no longer rose like phoenixes into the overcast sky.

Except this boy would receive no rejuvenation. He would not be reborn from the ashes. He was dead. This man-child of sixteen years, perhaps seventeen at a push, had served his time and was no longer required. And Bertrand, for the first time in three hundred years, could feel the fire of compassion burning inside of him. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Why should innocent men, barely old enough to drink, be slaughtered in this way? For no reason?

That was what hit Bertrand the most. If there had been a _point_ to it all, a categorical and validated justification then it would be easier to comprehend. But the truth was that none of the men, not even Bertrand, knew what they were fighting for. All they knew was that men were going to die. Needlessly. Pointlessly. In vain. While the generals, those idiots who knew damn-all about trench warfare swanned around their chateaus and their mansions, not knowing or caring that men died, men suffered, men cried in anguish as their lives were ripped viciously from their bodies…

Bertrand turned back to face the others. They were all still staring at the boy. It was marvellous, really, the stillness that the sight of a lifeless body could provoke, even upon a battlefield.

"What happened?" he asked. He wasn't surprised to hear a slight tremor in his voice.

Claythorne swallowed, his eyes flicking between Bertrand, the sergeant and the dead soldier. When it appeared no-one was going to answer, he cleared his throat.

"That second shell hit one of the grenade stores," he said softly, gesturing at the devastation that had been caused to the trench. The earth walls had great craters blown into them; shrapnel fragments were embedded into the duckboards, the parapets, the dugouts. More water had bubbled up from the ground, and a sickening drip, drip, drip could be heard as blood dribbled from the boy's smashed skull into the filthy puddles. The red droplets swirled like paint, dying the murky water an ugly reddy-brown. "It exploded. Most of the men managed to get out of the way of the blast- we've sent a couple down to casualty clearing but there were no fatalities…" he trailed off, staring fixedly at his hands, which were trembling once again. He thrust them into his pockets, eyes darting around nervously to check if anyone had noticed.

"Come on, then," the sergeant said briskly, his gravelly voice breaking the silence that had settled around them like fog, "There's no use standing around here all day."

"Should we take him to casualty clearing?" Claythorne asked half-heartedly. The man turned on him with a contemptuous look.

"Take a look at him, Claythorne," he snarled, "He's fucking snuffed it. Why the fuck would we take him to casualty clearing?"

"I'm sorry, I just-"

"Do something useful and call a stretcher-bearer," he snapped cruelly, turning his back on the officer, "Then you can scuttle off back to your little hidey-hole."

Claythorne's head jerked up. He looked as though the sergeant had slapped him. His face drained of what little colour it had possessed- it was now a translucent white. The sudden anger that had flashed in his eyes at the sergeant's words was fast being replaced with a harsh, raw pain. He swallowed fiercely.

"Are you calling me a coward?" he asked quietly, an ill-concealed crack in his voice betraying his hurt at the accusation.

The sergeant smirked unkindly, stepping over the corpse separating them to look Claythorne straight in the eyes. His were glittering with malice. "I call things as I see 'em, sonny, and from what I've seen of you, you're quite happy to slink off with your books and your whisky and let other men risk their lives. You have a duty to your men- you need to love 'em, you need to be prepared to give up your life for 'em at the drop of a hat if it comes to it. Without the men of the ranks old Kaiser Bill would be picking out the furnishings for Buckingham Palace right now. But you seem to think it's every man for himself. And that's not how we do it out here."

_TBC..._


	5. Chapter 5

_DISCLAIMER: see Chapter 1_

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: Eeek I am so, so sorry, everyone! I can't believe it's been nearly two months since I last updated! Tis really rather grim. Apologies for that. I've been focusing on my other multi-chapter fic for a little while. But here is an extra-long chapter for you to say sorry! I've gone through the first four and edited them, so if anyone's forgotten what's been going on up till this point (I know I certainly had) then have a quick skim through to refresh your memories. The next update is likely to be fairly soon, but after that I'm not entirely sure; I've still got the last chapter of my other fic to write and then we'll be getting into the Easter holidays = revision! So apologies for any upcoming sporadity. But I hope you enjoy this chapter!_

Chapter 5

* * *

**_Reconciliation_**

_When you are standing at your hero's grave,  
Or near some homeless village where he died,  
Remember, through your heart's rekindling pride,  
The German soldiers who were loyal and brave._

_Men fought like brutes; and hideous things were done;  
And you have nourished hatred harsh and blind.  
But in that Golgotha perhaps you'll find  
The mothers of the men who killed your son._

_Siegfried Sassoon_

* * *

Bertrand had had to act fast to stop Claythorne from punching the sergeant square in the jaw. Even now, as the pair were sat in the dank gloom of C Company's dugout, knocking back watered-down whiskey by the mug-full, Bertrand was amazed that such a blatant display of his vampiric powers had gone unquestioned. Why were breathers so infuriatingly dense?

Bertrand had never been into this dugout before. There wasn't often cause for the men of the ranks to go down there- only to receive orders or take shelter during extreme weather. Most of their tasks were performed in the open air. The dugout was small, claustrophobic; the walls were made of compressed mud, supported by wooden poles and slats. Old maps, damaged photographs, drawings and articles ripped out of magazines or newspapers had been pinned up with whatever the soldiers could find- rusty nails, the stumps of broken penknives. Tattered portraits of large, buxom women, only made halfway decent by a strategically-placed Union Jack, leered down from the walls. Posters bearing Kitchener's face, heavily graffitied, boomed the headline YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU through the dimness.

In the front line dugouts there could be no electric light bulbs. Candles, some fat and stubby, others tall and spindly, were scattered about, many balancing precariously on the old, rickety table in the centre that was both a place to eat, congregate and write, and a washstand. The tablecloth had been white, once. Now, after over three years of a hard war, it was muddied, ripped and greying, stained with soup, candlewax, champagne. Several upturned wooden crates served as chairs. There were two beds in the main area; the other four were squashed into a tiny, cave-like room, only to be reached through a roughly scalped archway. The beds varied in quality, according to Claythorne- the two in the main area were the best, and usually reserved for the senior officers: the captain and his second-in-command. The other four were either missing legs or playing host to a nest of rats. Claythorne had informed Bertrand that on his first night after being transferred, the bed he had been assigned had had no bottom. He'd simply had to sleep with his arms and legs flung out over the edges to stop himself from falling down onto the filthy floor.

As was the nature of November, the darkness had fallen quickly, quietly. It always seemed to creep up on them, and the lamps had been lit at only a few minutes past four. Now, at a quarter past ten, the dugout was almost pitch black. The flickering light of the candles cast long shadows over the table; the wax dripped steadily into the saucers in which they were standing, matched with the steady drip, drip, drip of rainwater running down the walls. It hadn't stopped raining all day. Puddles had formed on the earth floor. A slight dip in the ground level had resulted in a collection of water almost ankle deep at the entrance to the room of dilapidated beds.

Bertrand had been sitting with Claythorne for over four hours. The officer had taken his sentry duty at two till four in the afternoon; Bertrand's had been four till six. He had received a summons from C Company's dugout, conveyed begrudgingly by the rodent-like Anderson, and had descended the steps into the gloom to see the boy sat at the old table with an unopened bottle of whiskey, a decanter of questionable-looking water and two chipped porcelain mugs in front of him. Ordinarily, Bertrand would have snubbed the company in favour of going hunting- alcohol didn't often agree with his rather more particular digestive system- but Claythorne's smile had been a little too wide, his eyes a little too bright for Bertrand to comfortably turn his back on him. They'd spoken of the mundane at first: the weather, and how terrible it was, and yet how that was to be expected given the season; the men, and whether morale was as high as it ought to be given the impending attack; and the Boche, and whether they had any inkling of what was to come their way. The offensive had been planned with the utmost secrecy, as usual, but the British generals had never been known for their subtlety. One only had to look at the Somme to see what tomfoolery they were capable of when they set their minds to it.

But now the conversation had shifted slightly. The whiskey bottle was well over half-empty and Claythorne was sprawled across the table, his pale fingers curled loosely around the handle of his mug. His face looked even greyer in the gloom; ghostly, almost spectral. His hair was messy, sticking up in all directions, tin helmet lying abandoned on one of the unused crates. His breathing was steady- if it hadn't been for his eyes, their usual brilliant green glowing like a cat's in the uneven candlelight, Bertrand would have thought he was asleep.

"What do you think they're saying?" Claythorne mumbled. His words came out slightly slurred, his boyish voice lower and huskier than usual.

"Who?" Bertrand pushed his mug away. He had only meant to indulge in a couple of sips by way of politeness- being watered down, the alcohol had taken longer to affect him. He now had a throbbing headache; it felt as though his sinuses were on fire.

"Who do you think? The Ger- the Ger-" A look of annoyance crossed Claythorne's drawn face and he took a deep, shuddering breath. "The _Germans_," he managed to say, pushing himself up slowly and reaching for the whiskey bottle. He sloshed a decent measure into his mug before topping it up with water. "Refill?" he asked Bertrand, his voice suddenly very high.

Bertrand shook his head. "Just water," he said shortly. Claythorne gave a sharp shout of laughter.

"Lightweight," he taunted tipsily, grasping the handle of his mug and tossing the measure down his throat. Some of it spilled down his chin, dripping onto the jacket of his uniform. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Christ, that's good stuff, that is. Don't think it's even that good at home. We certainly never had it that good at Eton. Mind you, that was the stuff we stole from old Jenkins' maths cupboard."

Bertrand wrinkled his nose. "Your public school antics enthral me," he sniffed haughtily, glancing surreptitiously at his watch. The boy was absolutely intoxicated. He was surprised, really, how much of the bottle it had taken; he'd expected him to be plastered after three glasses at the most. As it was, Claythorne appeared to be much more of a hardened drinker than Bertrand had first thought. He didn't know why that thought bothered him so much.

"God, I loved it there," Claythorne sighed nostalgically, flopping back dramatically to lean his head against the wall behind him. He closed his eyes as a steady stream of filthy rainwater splashed onto his face. "The beaks, the boat races, the cricket-"

"The snobbery, the beatings, the pig-headed idiots," Bertrand finished for him in a bored voice, pulling the whiskey bottle towards him as Claythorne reached out for it. "You were asking what I thought the Germans were saying."

"Ah yes," Claythorne said, suddenly sitting bolt upright and looking remarkably alert, "The Germans. The Jerries. The Boche. The horrible, horrible Hun. Jerries I can understand, but one does wonder where Boche and Hun came from."

"I can't say I'm really that bothered what we call them. At the end of the day, either we'll be killing them or they'll be killing us. The names we give are, in the scheme of things, irrelevant."

"But _who_ decided on the Hun? I mean, _where_ did it come from?" Claythorne gesticulated wildly and succeeded in knocking his mug to the floor. A large crack, from rim to base, appeared in the off-white porcelain.

Bertrand stood up. He'd had enough of this. He'd thought that Claythorne would want to talk over the day's events, or discuss the plan of action for tomorrow. Heck, he'd even thought that Claythorne might want his advice. He hadn't thought he'd be playing nursemaid for an eighteen year old schoolboy who couldn't handle his drink.

"Go to bed, Claythorne," he said coldly, picking up his helmet off the table and placing it gracefully on his head. He'd only recently perfected, without using a mirror, how to tilt it at just the right angle to highlight the striking bone structure of his nose. "Busy day tomorrow and all that. 5:45am sharp, didn't you say? Can't have the commanding officer being late, can we? What would Major Barrow think of that?"

"Don't care," Claythorne muttered petulantly, reaching for the decanter of water. He fumbled to remove the stopper; the tinkle of glass on glass set Bertrand's fangs on edge. He grabbed it out of the boy's slack grip, opened it, and thrust it back to him.

"Here," he said harshly, "Get some of this into your system. And for God's sake, leave that bloody whiskey alone. You kids can't handle so many measures."

"Not a kid," Claythorne grumbled again, lifting the decanter into the air and, instead of drinking from it, pouring the contents over his head. The shock of the cold water seemed to revive him slightly; he shook his head, blinking rapidly and pushing back his sodden fringe, which was sticking to his forehead. He began to shiver, seemingly having broken out into a cold sweat. Ignoring his grunt of impatience, Bertrand pressed the back of his hand gingerly against the boy's forehead: he was burning up. His face was flushed, the apples of his cheeks rapidly staining red with hot blood.

"Get to bed, Claythorne," he repeated, stepping backwards lest the boy vomit over his uniform. "An orderly will be along at 4am to wake you so you'd best get as much sleep as you can."

"Stay," the boy begged drowsily, reaching out to tug on Bertrand's sleeve; he tried to get up, but the vampire pushed him down in case he collapsed. "It's lonely here on my own. I don't know why they haven't sent anyone along to fill these beds."

"Dugouts are for officers only, you know that."

"Seems a bit silly to me. When all the officers are dead."

"Not quite all," Bertrand reminded him gently, nudging a candle pointedly towards him. "Come on: we need you fighting fit for tomorrow." He turned to go- there was no way on earth he was going to put the boy to bed, not a chance in hell…

"I've never told you my first name, have I?" Claythorne's voice was suddenly clearer, less slurred. "It's Julian. Julian Theodore Claythorne."

"How nice," Bertrand said over his shoulder. He already had one foot on the ladder that would lead him up to the open air. The name was so upper-class it was painful.

"I was named after my father. Well, he was Theodore Julian Claythorne. But they changed it around for me."

"Fascinating." Bertrand was halfway up the ladder. Already he could feel refreshingly cool raindrops peppering his face, dragging him out of his whiskey-induced haze.

It was the clunk of a revolver hitting a wooden surface, slightly muffled by the tablecloth, that caused him to freeze. Perhaps Claythorne had gotten it out for polishing. Perhaps he'd gotten it out to check his ammunition. Even with his brain soaked in spirits Claythorne wouldn't really be that stupid…

"It was my father who taught me to shoot," said the boyish voice, the strongest it had been all evening; the clipped, cut-glass accent was reasserting itself. "I was always a disappointment to him. Cricket's for nancies, he said; rugger's the man's game."

Bertrand didn't reply. He disliked having his back to the unknown; his ears were straining, every sense heightened for the tell-tale signs of a gun being loaded, cocked…

"I think he was surprised that they gave me a commission, to be honest. Five foot eight's not nearly a respectable height for a gentleman of means, apparently. And it's not as though the ladies would even look at man who's shorter than six foot." The scraping of glass across the table; the sound of liquid hitting the bottom of a cup. "He was quick to remind me that Somerset's not nearly the best regiment. He was right, though, I suppose- a bunch of West Country layabouts, the lot of them."

"I think you've had enough whiskey, Claythorne," Bertrand said quietly. He wanted to move, but it was as though his hands and feet had been glued to the ladder. His entire body was stiff with tension, with anticipation.

"You should call me Julian," the officer said, the sudden lucidity of his speech unnerving Bertrand further. "I hate the way we all have to address each other by surname. It was like that at Eton. I mean, what happens when we get two Claythornes? Or two Andersons? Or- God forbid- two du Fortunesas?"

Bertrand smiled grimly. "I can't see that happening." He managed to turn his head slightly to glance over his shoulder. Claythorne was still sat at the table, the now almost empty bottle of whiskey in front of him. He was playing with the gun, running his fingers along every groove, fingering every dip and twist in the cold, meticulously welded metal. He looked up to meet Bertrand's gaze, smiling; his pale fingers curled around the polished handle.

"You know what the best thing about guns is? How hot they are. After one round they're practically smoking. You can give yourself a really nasty burn if you want to."

"And do you want to?"

Claythorne shrugged. "Sometimes. Sometimes it makes me feel better. If you do it as soon as you've fired then the heat can be really searing." He paused for a moment; even in his state of delirium, Bertrand could tell that he wasn't so far gone that there wasn't some truth in what he was saying. "It helps me to forget things."

_Ah_, Bertrand thought wryly, unsticking his hands and feet from the ladder and making his way slowly over to the table, _now we're finally getting somewhere_.

_TBC..._


	6. Chapter 6

_DISCLAIMER: see Chapter 1_

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wanted to get this up yesterday but the internet kept cutting out. Sometimes living in the country is really rather tiresome._

Chapter 6

* * *

_**Suicide in the Trenches**_

_I knew a simple soldier boy_  
_Who grinned at life in empty joy,_  
_Slept soundly through the loathsome dark,_  
_And whistled early with the lark._

_In winter trenches, cowed and glum,_  
_With crumps and lice and lack of rum,_  
_He put a bullet through his brain._  
_No one spoke of him again._

_You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye_  
_Who cheer when soldier lads march by,_  
_Sneak home and pray you'll never know_  
_The hell where youth and laughter go._

_Siegfried Sassoon_

* * *

Bertrand sat down wearily opposite Claythorne, removing his helmet and placing it with a clunk on the crate beside him. "Come on, then," he said brusquely, "Let's have it."

Claythorne looked up from his gun, blinking blearily. "Sorry?"

"Oh, come on," Bertrand snapped impatiently, "You can hardly go around saying things like that and not expect me to want to hear the whole sorry tale."

Claythorne blushed a fiery shade of red. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, dropping his gaze back down to the soiled tablecloth, "I didn't mean to-"

"Whether you meant to or not, you've said it now. Out with it." Bertrand knew from experience that boys like Claythorne, with the memories of public school still fierce in their minds, responded obligingly to displays of authority. He pointedly checked his watch again. "The longer you take, the less sleep we'll get before the attack." He leant forward; Claythorne immediately sat back. "Are you scared about tomorrow?"

"No!" the boy cried, affronted, his voice comically high-pitched. His flush deepened.

"There's nothing wrong with being scared," Bertrand told him, shrugging. Claythorne snorted.

"I should think _you're_ not, though. I don't believe you're scared of anything. As likely as not you'd punch a Jerry in the face if one came down here."

"Wouldn't you?"

Claythorne paused for a moment, chewing nervously on his tongue. "No," he said finally, "No, I wouldn't. I'd just shoot them. Shoot 'em dead." He made a half-hearted attempt at a Western twang.

"And what would you do with the body?"

"Chuck it over the side of the trench."

"You wouldn't search it, then, for clues? Indicators of battles plans, trench co-ordinates and the like?"

"No. I'd want rid of it as fast as possible." He swallowed. "I don't like corpses."

Bertrand sat back, appraising the boy before him pensively. He hesitated for a moment, before pulling the cracked mug towards him and splashing what remained of the whiskey into it. "Here," he said, nudging it across the table, "Dutch courage."

Claythorne's hand snaked cautiously around the handle. "And what if I don't want to tell?" Bertrand could see he was testing the waters; he decided to play along.

"Then maybe I'll have to show Major Barrow this bottle of whiskey. I'm sure he'd be most interested in knowing where it went- and where it came from, in fact. I can't imagine they keep many bottles of Hicks and Healey down at the supply base."

Claythorne jumped to his feet, the very picture of outrage and indignation. "Now look here, corporal, what exactly are you insinuating-"

Bertrand also sprang to his feet; his considerable height meant that he towered over the young officer. "Pulling rank on me now, are you?" he hissed. "That's a dangerous road, Claythorne, especially considering what I know about you. I wouldn't be in the least surprised if stealing is a capital offence in Barrow's books."

Claythorne blanched to the colour of sour milk. "You don't know anything! I haven't told you anything!" He seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as Bertrand, the note of panic in his voice raising his pitch by a near half-octave. Realising that arguing would get him nowhere, he changed tack. "Y-you drank some of it too," he stammered, gesturing at the now-empty bottle, "You're just as guilty as I am…"

"I wasn't the one who stole it, though, was I?"

"I didn't steal it!" Claythorne appeared to be close to tears, sweat plastering his dark fringe to his forehead. All the blood had drained from his face- he was quite, quite white. "It wasn't like that, I… I'd just got back from my watch and I just felt so queer and I- look, you know how it is, up in the line sometimes, something just comes over you and-"

"And you decide to steal a bottle of whiskey?"

"NO!" Claythorne roared desperately, "No, it's not like that! I'm not a thief, it's just sometimes- when the memories get too strong-"

"It's not enough just to burn yourself?"

"The whiskey- it helps me to forget things too. Horrible things." Claythorne sank back down, dropping his head into his hands, elbows resting on the table. Bertrand pretended not to notice the way his shoulders were shaking. Instead, he chose to investigate the waterlogged sleeping quarters. Stepping gingerly over the lake-like puddle, he found four derelict beds cramped into the tiny space. There was barely enough room for him to turn around; even a man of Claythorne's slight build would find it difficult to dress in such an enclosed space, never mind when there were four of them crammed in. He smiled grimly at the sight of Claythorne's bed, meticulously made, Eton-style.

"Well, it's cosy, I'll give it that," he called, his voice sounding rather louder than necessary as it echoed around the low-ceilinged room, "Though I can imagine there's rather a quandary when you all want to get up at the same time."

"Well, there's just me at present. So I wouldn't know." The boy's voice was thick.

"Right. Of course." Bertrand sidled out of the vault-like cave, relieved to see a now dry-eyed (though red-eyed) Claythorne. He sat down opposite him again. "I've heard a lot of things in my time," he said softly, almost gently. "Nothing you tell me is going to shock me."

Claythorne swallowed several times. He seemed to be summoning up the courage to speak. When he did, his voice wobbled violently. "It's not- _that_… that I'm worried about. I- I just- I don't like thinking about it. I've never told anyone."

"Well, no time like the present. Unless you want to take it to your grave with you, of course." Coming from anyone else's lips the comment would have been considered untactful, but Bertrand had a way of speaking that couldn't help making one smile at the irony. Claythorne, certainly, seemed to appreciate the blackness of the joke- grabbing the mug before him with renewed courage he downed the measure, wincing as the sharp, fiery liquid scorched the back of his throat. He proceeded to fix his eyes upon a hole in the tablecloth, tracing it with his finger.

"It's idiotic, really," he began hurriedly, as though to cover his tracks from the outset. Bertrand could sense his heart beating frantically in his chest. "I've only been out here for seven weeks and already I'm a mess. It's utterly pathetic. Look at Rogers- he fought on the Somme and you don't see him bawling."

Bertrand said nothing. He wasn't there to counsel, to help Claythorne to decide what was right or wrong; he was only there to listen.

"I just- I don't feel like I've the _right_ to be feeling so damn awful when there are men who have undoubtedly seen worse and are coping perfectly well." The boy hadn't yet moved his gaze from the hole in the tablecloth; if anything, he had become more fixated upon it. "I feel like such a fraud. I'm supposed to be in charge of all these men- to lead them into battle!- and yet I can't even hold my drink." He dragged his eyes up to meet Bertrand's. There was a steely look of determination in them which told the vampire that he was close to confession. "I've never asked," he diverged suddenly, still holding Bertrand's gaze, "How long have _you_ been out here?"

The vampire shook his head. He wasn't going to be deflected. They were going to have this out now, regardless of the lateness of the hour or the chill that was beginning to burrow into his flesh, biting at the very marrow of his bones. The darkness was so thick, so penetrating that the candles- which were guttering now- threw barely enough light for him to distinguish the whereabouts of Claythorne's revolver. It wasn't that he was worried for his own safety: after all, what harm could a bullet do to him apart from cause a few hours of moderate discomfort? No. Child that he was, it was Claythorne who was in danger. A boy of eighteen, no doubt with the dramatic, evocative scenes of Shakespeare's tragedies at the forefront of his scholarly brain, there was little guarantee that he wouldn't do something insane. Or cowardly. Or terribly, terribly stupid.

"It was my third week," Claythorne began dully, resignedly. Beads of sweat were gathering on his upper lip. "I hadn't really seen much action; a couple of grenades from the Jerries, but the most use I'd been putting my gun to was shooting rats. We had a weekly pool going- you'd keep the rats you killed in a shoebox, and every Sunday night we'd bring them out and whoever had the most won a packet of cigarettes and an extra tot of rum of a morning. You'd have to hide your box, though; else the other chaps in your dugout would pinch your rats whilst you were on duty. Pretty poor sportsmanship, in my opinion. We didn't stand for cheats at Eton."

"I can imagine."

"Well… it was my third week. And the old major- Crusty, the men of the ranks used to call him, but his real name was Cruston- Major Cruston came along and asked me to lead a raid across No Man's Land. I was to take five volunteers along with me, and we were to get across to the German trenches by cover of night and capture ourselves a prisoner or two. He said the wire-cutters would have been at work in the afternoon to make a gap for us. He said there'd be an MC in it for me if I pulled it off. Being October, the evening was dark enough for us not to risk detection. The chaps in charge of ammo sent up a couple of flares to light the way, and that was enough.

I won't go into the details of what happened- I didn't even get the chance to _see_ a German, let alone capture one- but Lord knows the entire scheme was an absolute catastrophe from start to finish. I lost the first four of my volunteers to shell-fire, and just as Fowler and I were charging hell for leather back towards our trenches I felt him go down beside me." Claythorne put his head in his hands, palms covering his face. When he spoke again, his voice was slightly muffled.

"They'd managed to pump a good round through the small of his back. It had gone straight through him; torn his stomach open. It looked as though someone had taken a butcher's knife to him. And there was blood- so much blood. Even in the darkness I could see it, I could _smell_ it. I could smell the burning flesh and the split entrails. I think I might have been sick. I don't remember. It was dark. I'd lost my torch in the run. It wouldn't have been much past eleven at night. And Fowler- who was probably about twenty- just moved his head to look at me and said, 'Shoot me, sir'. He wasn't screaming, or rolling around in agony; he just fixed his dying eyes on me and asked me to shoot him.

I knew the Jerries would be sending up a flare at any moment to check if there were any more of us about. If they saw me, they'd open fire. I could hear the sound of Fowler's blood bubbling up out of the wound. He asked me again. There would only have been seconds, perhaps a minute at most, before the flare was going to go up. And so I took out my revolver and I- I shot him. Right in the chest. I heard the bullet rip through his heart and embed itself into the ground. His eyes rolled back into his head until all I could see was the whites.

I don't remember getting back to my dugout. I've racked my brains, but the last memory I have is those eyes." Claythorne twitched involuntarily. "I dream about them sometimes. And him. I'd never seen anyone die before." He looked up; his face was blank, the green eyes like bottomless voids. He'd related the tale in a monotone; the only part of him that displayed any kind of distress was his hands. They were shaking again. He thrust them into his pockets. "I'd seen a lot of men, much older than I, who had turned to whiskey to help them through. I wanted to stop feeling like a boy. So I started to drink too. And the burns- the burns help. They're soothing. I jumped at the chance to get away from the Somerset regiment; there was always the risk that they'd send us over the top and I'd come across him. Though he's probably half-rotted by now, a month on." Claythorne chanced a glance at Bertrand, as though afraid of the disgust and contempt his features might display; he was careful to keep his face expressionless. "So there you are. You've got a murderer leading you to glory. Go and tell _that_ to Major Barrow. Quite frankly, I'd welcome a court-martial, though I should think they'll say that the firing squad's too good for me after what I've done." And suddenly, inexplicably, as though the full weight of his guilt had crashed down upon him, exerting a force enough to snap him in half, Claythorne's face cracked, like a sheet of ice upon a frozen lake. He lunged for the revolver sitting innocently on table in front of him; Bertrand, still reeling from the boy's confession, wasn't quick enough to stop him. Claythorne fumbled for a moment, fingers numb in the stinging rawness of the night air- before bringing the revolver up, with a convulsing hand, to rest at the side of his skull, finger poised on the gleaming trigger.

_TBC..._


End file.
